prompt: whisper, title: spellbound in "the next big thing" flash fiction

If you give all the secrets away, there’s no trick. No one shows for the next engagement, no one pays to see it. Even if they can’t work it themselves, they know how it was done and convince themselves anyone could do it. They’ll say they don’t have the time or, if more honest in their lies, they’re just too lazy. Freddy Dunning-Kreuger setting their dreams just so, as if driving to market is just a shorter version of the Indy 500, as if an e-mail to your professor how your third grandma died this semester, that’s why your paper’s late, is just a shorter version of Finnegan’s Wake. “How hard could it have been when that mom lifted a Buick off of her baby, I carry all my own groceries, hell, sometimes twice a week!”

Her dual-experience in slight-of-hand on-stage and as a minor Kabbalistic mage gave Mitzi the perspective to understand that divinity functions this way too. Angels, demons and far stranger creatures than even those, they no more show which sleeve the cards came from than an earthly illusionist would. God works in mysterious ways because were it all spelled out, we’d similarly lose fascination. “Oh, that’s how.” Humanity’s deepest blessing-curse, our ability to get used to pretty much anything. Within one generation, everything becomes normal, has simply always been, dull as sliced bread. Which was, of course, new once too.

She knew the miracle she bargained for wouldn’t come cheap, wouldn’t come as expected. She knew her request would be granted as in the Twilight Zone, manifest as the finger of a cursed monkey’s paw. Through the whims of a djinn intent on interpreting words with cruel literality. Par for the course in asking for something large from something far larger than you. But that awareness didn’t stop her making the bargain, the covenant, the deal.

That was her desperation. There would be no explanation, no explication, things would be fixed in some manner of speaking and that would be it. Some backfires anticipated, expected, it was too important to worry how it would fall out. The trick would play itself, play her and them all. Life isn’t just about accidents or mistakes, it’s also about the disasters can’t stop but you might be able to ameliorate, make a little less awful. Medics call it triage. Often, that’s all the miracle we can ever hope to witness.

Frank would be saved. Whatever happened after that was for future Mitzi to deal with. Divinity would conjure her request however it liked, the mechanics of God as opaque to her as her own illusions to untrained rubes. The universe just whispers, “Peek-a-boo.” “Got your nose.” “Was this your card?” Knowing all the whys and the how-fors could scuttle the entire performance.

You give up a piece of yourself and hope for the best. Transmit intention and hope it lands. The most powerful of all f-words, I’ve heard it called, faith. That was all Mitzi had then, only faith.